Forgotten Witness Page 9

  “Damn bloody stuff,” he muttered as a particularly dense curtain fell from the sky.

  “Bloody idiot.” Stephen cursed the weatherman who had predicted rain but not torrents, not tempests.

  When he was done with that, he began to sing Royal Blood’s Out of the Black with gusto, loving that his voice sounded quite good in the cab of his truck. His singing was so excellent that he forgot the rain, drummed his beefy hands on the big steering wheel, and gave the old trolley of his a little wiggle just as he hit a perfectly acceptable high note.

  Unfortunately, in the next minute he hit something else.

  ***

  It was all over in seconds: the crunch, the spin. The frantic attempt to keep the rental on the road failed. The car bumped down the incline just under the bridge and landed sideways in a tangle of ferns, hibiscus, and banyan tree roots. Josie’s hands were still clenched tightly on the wheel minutes after the crash. That was the first thing she was aware of, the second was the sound of the rain, and the third was her ragged breathing.

  She let her head fall back, closed her eyes, and did a quick inventory. Her head was spinning, but she hadn’t hit it. Her stomach was clutching, but only because her seatbelt had done what it was supposed to do: grab and restrain. She had gone cheap on the rental so no airbag deployed. Her arms would hurt in a few hours because she’d braced against the fall by pushing out on the steering wheel even though she knew better. Go with it. Roll with it. Finally, she relaxed her fingers, extended them, and let go of the wheel as she opened her eyes. Her purse was dumped on the passenger side floor and that window was cracked. So was the back window on the passenger side. To her left there didn’t seem to be anything different than the right: forest and more forest. Above her the rain went from sounding like a machine gun to a car wash. Water slid off the windshield in sheets. Though she wasn’t hurt, she was darn ticked. Josie couldn’t imagine what she’d hit but whatever it was it felt like a brick wall.

  She turned off the engine, unsnapped her belt and nearly tumbled to the other side of the car. Stabilizing herself with her feet, Josie leaned over and gathered her things. Reaching behind her, she grabbed the steering wheel and pulled herself upright and then tried the driver side door. The angle made it nearly impossible to push it open with her hands so she leaned back and put both feet against it. With a great heave she shoved until the hinges caught. At exactly that moment, the wind whipped through the mountains and drove the rain horizontally, drenching her in the process.

  “Damn! Damn!”

  Josie turned her head as she slid off the seat and took the short drop to the ground. One foot hit a bush and the other slid in a river of mud. Muttering, cursing, wet to the skin, she slung her purse across her body, took one last look at the car, and started to hike. The incline wasn’t much but she was shaken and the terrain was sodden so it was slow going. She slipped, grabbed onto a tree, and pulled herself up a few feet toward the bridge before slipping again and sliding all the way back to the beginning. She set to it once more with a grunt, choosing her footholds, pushing the rain out of her eyes, spitting it out of her mouth, and clutching at any plant that seemed to have deep roots. Josie almost reached the top before she felt herself going backward again but this time she was ready. She grabbed for a root that wove in and out of the ground like the hump of a sea serpent. It held strong. Hanging there, her feet buried in mud, her arms stretched taut, and her grip weakening, she heard:

  “Hello! Hello there!”

  Just as Josie looked up, the rain stopped, the sun broke through and the short, wide man standing on the narrow bridge above her threw his arms out and splayed his hands on the railing. He was grinning at her, his face nearly hidden by a hat that was half beanie, half mini-umbrella.

  “Good God, I’ve found me an Amazon!”

  “I don’t believe it,” Josie muttered and then called back, “Can you give a hand?”

  “Delighted.” He came around the edge of the bridge railing and positioned himself solidly with one hand on the rail and his other out to Josie. “You’re going to have to step up a bit more. No sense both of us getting muddied.”

  Josie looked down, saw a rock that would give her a boost, and planted her foot on it. She looked back up to see his fingers wiggling. She put out her hand and grasped his. A second later Stephen Kyle hauled her up to the road.

  “There you go. There you go. I fear your sandals will never be the same. No worries. We have plenty where those came from. Don’t you know enough to honk before you go ’round these twists and turns?”

  “Maybe you could have honked. That thing’s a monster,” Josie complained as she eyed Stephen’s truck and then the man himself. He had swiped the silly hat off and was rubbing the top of his head like it was the belly of a Buddha, unfazed by her pique.

  “Ah, but I have the right of way. That’s what you didn’t count on. I dare you to say otherwise. It’s in the rule book.”

  When he laughed Josie wanted to deck him. This had not been her best day for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that she had to admit that Archer was right. She was on a fool’s errand looking for Hannah in Hawaii.

  “There’s no rule book.”

  Josie sat down on the side of the road and put her head in her hands. She took one deep breath then treated herself to another, dropped her hands, rested her forearms on her knees, and gazed at the car. Stephen Kyle sat beside her.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to be flip. You just looked so magnificent hiking up that hill I thought you were uninjured. Any blood? Anything broken?” He poked at her arm and then brushed at her hair.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” Josie brushed right back, swatting his hand away.

  “Well, someone needs to worry a bit. You’re far from everything and that car of yours is going nowhere.” Stephen looked skyward. This time he patted an ample middle that was covered with a lime green Hawaiian shirt. The man’s hands were like his mouth, unable to stay still. “Ah, I love it when it stops raining. Breathe in, my girl. Nothing like the scent of paradise to make you feel better. Would that we could package the stuff. That’s why God made rain, you know, so that you can appreciate the glory of his other creations when it’s cleaned them all up.”

  “How far are we from a tow?” Josie peered down the road, first one way and then the other.

  “A good distance. Never fear, I’ll get you where you’re going. Come on then. Be a good girl. Can’t leave you out here by yourself.” He stood up and dusted off his board shorts.

  “I’ll call for a truck.” Josie started to dig in her purse for her phone.

  “You can do what you like, but there’s no reception out here. Nothing but highway. Six-hundred and twenty curves. Fifty-nine bridges. Half of them are that way.” He pointed north. “And the other half are that way.” He pointed south. “You’re right in the middle. It’s going to rain again and, much as it would be a pleasure to continue seeing you wet as a guppy, I think it better that we get you dried off just to make sure that you’re not mistaken about the state of your impressive body. Best hurry.”

  He offered his hand. She took it. She knew enough about Hawaii to know that rain and sun came and went. Today rain was winning.

  “Josie Bates,” she said.

  “Keoloko,” he answered.

  “Right. All Hawaiians talk like they went to Oxford.”

  “Oh, you want to be formal. Stephen Kyle. I go by Stephen to those who love me.”

  “Got it.”

  Josie pulled at the t-shirt suctioned to her midsection as they walked to the big truck Stephen had pulled to the side of the one lane bridge. She reached for the passenger door handle but he stopped her before she opened it.

  “Not there, my darling. You’ll get a face full of pineapples. Come on around back.”

  Josie did as she was told, checking out the artwork on the side of the paneled truck. It was a veritable explosion of Hawaiian art: flowers, surfers, waves and wahinis in rainbow col
ored grass skirts. In curlicue fonts painted in pink, the truck screamed Shave Ice! Pineapple by the Slice! Mango Cola! In the center of it all, was a huge picture of Stephen Kyle dressed in the plaid shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and hoisting a pineapple in each hand. A wreath of flowers encircled his head and emblazoned like a manic psychedelic halo over that head was the word Keoloko.

  “Nice,” she said as she joined him behind the truck.

  “Pays the bills.” Stephen Kyle cranked the handles down simultaneously and pulled open the huge double doors in the back of the truck. He threw out his arms like a ringmaster.

  “There you are.”

  Josie looked inside. The cavernous space was packed with things: boogie boards, boxes of umbrella beanies, a hanging rack of clothes, and a bed. Everything, including the spread on the mattress was emblazoned with the Keoloko logo.

  “You live here?”

  “Hardly. Come on. Up you go. I’m not a masher.”

  She was barely inside when he slammed the door. The truck went dark except for the light coming through a small window that looked into the cab and through the front windshield. A moment later, the engine came to life smoothly and the truck lumbered back on to the road just as the rain began to fall again. For the next two hours Josie laid on the mattress drying out, counting the twists and turns on the Hana Highway, and listening to the man up front channel Don Ho and the Beatles at the top of his lungs.

  ***

  Michael Horn arrived at his office at 6:00 a.m. He handled four client conferences, two meetings with the administrative staff, and reviewed countless claims at the large insurance office that carried his name. He then spent another four hours reviewing the new government regulations that were going to make him crazy at best or put him out of business at worst. His concerns were a well-kept secret because nothing ever seemed to rattle Michael Horn. Some saw him as robotic and apathetic but the truth was quite the opposite. Michael Horn was a man of such deep feelings that if he did not simply get on with business he would dissolve into a puddle of doubt and fear, he would be paralyzed by the sheer enormity of the battle life had thrown at him, a battle no one at work knew he waged.

  At the end of the day, he left the office and drove through downtown Cleveland to his favorite burger joint. There he picked up dinner and resisted the urge to dig into the french fries as he drove home. Once there, he took off his suit jacket, draped it neatly on the back of the dining room chair, loosened his tie and made space for his dinner on the table that was littered with files and papers, pictures and maps, legal briefs and bills. The house was quiet as a tomb because no one lived there anymore but him. His wife had left over a year ago taking their twelve-year old son with her. Intellectually, Michael understood that his fight was not hers. He also understood things like honor and ethics and morals and the rights of the individual. He couldn’t understand why her righteousness had limits. She thought he was titling at windmills; he believed he must slay Goliath. She insisted all he needed was to give in to his grief and all would be better.

  Michael told her she was wrong.

  She told him goodbye.

  He took a bite of his burger. It was excellent as always. Just enough meat, a tease of pickles, and the secret sauce that he was sure was nothing more than Thousand Island dressing. Still, he liked the idea that somewhere there was a safe that protected the recipe for secret sauce. He took a french fry, ate it, and then reached for the television remote. He should have wiped his hands first. His wife hated grease on the remote. Then again, his wife would have hated that he moved the television into the dining room. Then again, his wife didn’t live there any longer so he stopped worrying about the remote as the news came on.

  … the head of the NSA has once again been called upon by congress to explain why more than eighteen million citizen communications have been monitored on a regular basis for years. This disclosure comes on the heels of the administrations vehement denials –

  The phone rang before Michael could enjoy the latest rounds of denials by the government on any given subject. You probably couldn’t get a straight answer if you asked them what day it was but they wanted to know every time you took a leak. He waited for the answering machine to pick up. He had no desire to fight with his wife, or decline an offer to buy new siding, or address an office crisis that his managers were hired to deal with. Michael took another bite of his burger and smiled. A pickle. The pickle bites made him the happiest. The answering machine engaged and his wife’s voice announced they were not at home.

  “Well, half of us aren’t,” Michael muttered and made a mental note to change the announcement. The machine beeped. There was a hiccup and then he heard:

  “Michael. It’s Sheila. Do you have The Post from a few days ago? Look at page–”

  Michael Horn forgot the burger, his fries, and his greasy fingers and picked up the phone.

  “Sheila. Don’t hang up.”

  “I’m glad you’re there,” she said. “Are you still getting The Post?”

  “I am. I just haven’t looked at it lately. I’ve been busy. Hold on.” He put her on speaker as he rummaged through the newspapers that were stacked on the chair at the far end of the table. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Find the tenth.”

  “Got it,” he called.

  “Page thirty-six. It’s buried; only a few lines. Headline is: Robert Lee Suicide.” Sheila said.

  “I’ve got it.” Michael switched on the overhead light and shook out the paper and read:

  “The Metropolitan Police Department responded to a nine-one-one call on Wednesday night when a resident of The Robert Lee Hotel jumped to his death. Officer Morgan of the Capitol Police was also on scene. He confirmed that earlier in the day the victim had been detained after disrupting a Senate hearing presided over by Senator Ambrose Patriota. The man, Ian Francis, was an expert in forensic neurology who, at one time, worked for the Department of Defense. One witness, Josie Bates of Hermosa Beach, California, was questioned at the scene and released. Anyone with information regarding relatives of Ian Francis is asked to call Officer Morgan.”

  “That’s it,” Sheila said.

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “No, Ernie’s home soon. You know how he feels about this,” Sheila said. “He’s so worried we’re going to get in trouble especially with the NSA stuff going on.”

  “He shouldn’t worry. We’re small fish,” Michael assured her.

  “That’s what I tell him, but you know how it is. Can you believe it? Ian Francis, the little twerp. I thought he was in hell a long time ago,” Sheila said.

  “He is now.”

  There wasn’t much more to say after that. Michael heard the click on the other end of the line. He tossed aside the newspaper and sat down in front of the larger of the two computers he had at the end of the table. He typed out a note to the lawyers telling them about the death notice but held off asking them to research. It was costing a fortune to see this thing through and Michael could do the preliminaries as well as they could. He would hand it over when he had as much information as he could get.

  “We’re closing in, grandpa. Yes, we are. This is just too good.”

  Michael was grinning when he stood up and gave his grandfather’s picture a wink. Then his smile faded. He was talking to a dead man while he stood in an empty house.

  ***

  “Anuhea! Cool and Fragrant. That’s what her name means. No people on earth have names like the Hawaiians do. Pure poetry.”

  Stephen Kyle pointed to a young girl lounging on a rattan sofa petting a Siamese cat. She looked at Josie with beautiful dark eyes that registered no surprise at either her presence or her appearance.

  “Aloha.” The girl said. The cat purred.

  Like a dust devil, all whirling motion, kicking up dirt and sand along his narrow path, Stephen went on to the next woman.

  “And this is Aolani. Her name means heavenly cloud. Their mother named them well.” An identical girl s
at at a table reading. She looked up and graced Stephen with a lovely smile and raised her head so that he could plant a kiss in the middle of her brow.

  “Aolani is studying to be a nurse. And a fine one you’ll be. Who wouldn’t want a heavenly cloud by their bedside? Who, I ask you? We must find a Hawaiian name for you, Josie.”

  “I think I’ll stick with the name I’ve got–” Josie began, fully intending to cut this hospitality short but the man wasn’t done.

  “Ah, and there’s Malia. That means beloved. Not by me, of course,” Stephen guffawed. “Far too young, even though she adores me. Don’t you, dear thing?”

  “You betcha,” Malia said just before she disappeared into the back of the house.

  “She’s not Hawaiian, you know.” Stephen offered this aside confidentially.

  “The Brooklyn accent was a dead giveaway,” Josie assured him.

  “A good ear you have. Puerto Rican. Her real name is Maria, but you put a grass skirt on her and crown of flowers and she’s Malia, beloved of the gods of Hawaii, arrived on this earth on the back of the great turtle or some such. Drink?”

  Josie smiled because it was hard not to. She had slept in the back of the truck despite, or because of, Stephen Kyle’s singing. It had taken her a few minutes to ground herself after she woke up. Now here she was, a guest of an English Mad Hatter in a tropical rabbit hole. Still, there were worse places to be than this house and were it not for Stephen Kyle she would be walking the road from Hana.

  “There’s a bathroom over there for you to wash up. You’ll feel so much better if you do. Glad you’re dried out. Anuhea.” Stephen called to the reclining girl who looked at him with a smile. “Could you get Josie here a shirt from the cabinet and see if you can find a pair of flip-flops from the shipment that was going over to the Royal Lahaina?” To Josie: “I’m thinking you wear a nine? Yes?”